


The Sweetness of Spring Flowers

by Doitsuki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: ???? - Freeform, Aphrodisiacs, Biting, Blood, Flowers, Food, Incest, M/M, PWP, Shota, not too much tho, somewhat kinky idk, vicious manipulative thrandiddly doo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of Thrandopher smut, written in the present tense. Haven't actually written my OTP before so um yeah this is kinda weird but was a good exercise nonetheless. Ayyyy</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweetness of Spring Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
> Ion nin: my son  
> Dithen-pen: little one
> 
> ahehehue yes Oropher is a derp towards Randy Thrandy >v

The days are peaceful in the Greenwood when Oropher begins to wonder where he went wrong. Day by day he watches the sun rise and fall from his carven throne amongst the trees. The Silvan gladly serve him, and the few Sindar warriors he brought from Doriath stand by his side, ready to defend. But Oropher needs no guards to look after him - he tells them this, yet they insist it is proper. His stern face and powerful build frighten off anyone who even thinks to harm him, and so little physical pain he feels, it would be folly to try and slay him with blade or bow. Nobody in the Greenwood tries. He is their King. The first they have ever had.

Oropher’s realm is a place of wild, natural beauty and it is reflected in his son, Thranduil. Young and carefree, the Prince has lived for thirty-nine years and is no taller than his father’s thighs. He loves the creatures of the forest and would rather frolic with deer than sit around looking regal. Oropher forces nothing upon his son, and Thranduil enjoys life as it passes every day. Now it is Spring, the season Thranduil was named for. Thranduil often arrives at his father’s feet at the end of a long day, bright flowers in his hair and a sweet smile on his face. Oropher is not accustomed to smiling, but seeing his son happy is all he ever needs. He bends to scoop Thranduil into his strong arms and gazes upon him with kindness.

“What have you been up to today, my little flower?” His voice is deep and rolls like the waves of the sea over smooth stone and fine sand. It calms Thranduil’s jittery excitement, as he is always very perceptive to his father’s tone. Oropher rarely shows emotion in his face, unless extreme anger or mania grips his heart. So Thranduil has learnt to listen. He never interrupts.

“I was walking in the forest, and I found these!” Thranduil takes a flower from his hair, one with pastel blue petals and pink dust in the center. It has many layers and richer colours when Thranduil parts the petals to show his father. “In here, there’s something sweet. The flowers said to eat them…”

Oropher blinks, his cool emerald gaze washing over the sight he is presented with. A little colour rises to his cheeks when he thinks of Thranduil innocently drinking nectar from flowers like a bird or bee. “I do hope it is not poison, ión nîn.”

Thranduil’s head tilts to the side and his soft blonde hair falls by his smooth cheeks. “It made me feel really warm… I still do.. Ada, is it bad for me?” Now his eyes are wide and lip caught between sharp little teeth. Nibbling at his bottom lip, Thranduil squirms in his father’s hands.

“Be still, dithen-pen. I do not think anything would try to harm you, not when you are such a perfect little elfling. Tell me, when did you find these?” Oropher holds Thranduil close to his chest and his touch is soothing upon Thranduil’s worried head. He strokes Thranduil’s hair, so gentle that his tough, calloused hand cannot feel it but he knows he is touching his son. It takes a calculated effort for him to show Thranduil his love. His hands will destroy him otherwise. 

Thranduil tells his father of the sunlit glade two hours ago where a field of these flowers caught his attention, sweet voices calling to him and the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Oropher takes a closer look at the flower while listening to his son, and notices it is shaped like woman’s sex.

‘ _Well, shit.’_ he thinks. ‘ _Trust my own son to find the field of aphrodisiac flowers.’_ Thankfully, Thranduil had strayed far from the place with psychotropic leaves and berries. Those only fell in Summer, but grew young and fresh in the Spring. Had he eaten that sort of thing, there would not be enough healers in the Greenwood to ease his frantic mind. Now he tries to squirm a little more, but Oropher’s grip is firm and Thranduil cannot move. His body tingles all over, begging to fidget and do _something_. Thranduil has not yet learned the art of staying still - for he is full of youthful energy and has not taken any sorrow from the world. He tries a little slower to crane his neck around, and Oropher does not restrict his son’s movement there. He peers down his hooked nose at Thranduil, only to see him part his rose-pink lips and lick the sweetness from within the flower. The flower seems to sigh gently in response, its petals relaxing. Oropher raises an eyebrow.

“Are you hungry, ión?” He draws the flower away from Thranduil and places it on a branch far from his son’s reach. The leaves around them waft lazily in the warm afternoon breeze. Thranduil feels the wind tickle his skin which now holds sensitivity he knew not to exist before today. 

“Ada…” whispers Thranduil, twitching a lock of hair away from his face and running his tongue over his lips. The faintest sweet taste remains there, and he is suddenly overcome by the need to share it with his father. He has never experienced anything quite so delicious before, after all. What good would it do to keep it all to himself?

Oropher’s keen gaze watches and knows exactly what Thranduil is doing. ‘ _Oh, no.’_ He cannot let Thranduil do things he will regret, not today, when his mind is not his own. Thranduil thinks otherwise, leaning up and pursing his lips. How dear he looks, with his little eyebrows quirked up and eyes half-lid. 

“I will get you something to eat before you bite my lips off.” Oropher’s attempt at humour does nothing for his son, who actually seems enticed by the idea and bares his teeth. The Elvenking suppresses a shiver, then cuddles his son into his chest. His bare feet make way along paths of lumpy branch and smooth wood. The closer he gets to the cluster of trees in which his palace is hidden, evermore does Thranduil fidget in his arms. Oropher walks a little faster, his long strides taking them both into the privacy of his chambers. He places Thranduil upon his own bed, where the elfling usually sleeps as he will not separate from his father at night for any reason at all.

“Stay here. I shall get you something to eat.” Oropher pats Thranduil’s head and hears a soft grunt in response. He leaves, for long enough to call a servant and order some honey pastries. Thranduil loves those, and will hopefully distract himself with proper food for long enough so that the effects of the flowers might wear off.

Oropher walks back into his chambers to see Thranduil gleefully chewing on the remaining flowers that he had in his hair, robes askew and eyes closed.

“Thranduil!” Perhaps a little louder than necessary, it gets the message across. Thranduil jumps at Oropher’s voice and sees his father cringe at his own volume.

“Ah, um. Yes, what are you doing? You shall have something proper to eat soon.”

Thranduil rolls over onto his back, limbs splayed and a provocative pose spreading heat through his wanton form. He has not said much yet, and beckons with an open hand to his father. Oropher wanders to sit on his bed, the silver-embroidered dark green covers crinkling beneath his weight. Very confused and with brows furrowed, Oropher regards his son with a strange look. He says nothing. 

“I want to eat _you_ …” Thranduil mutters, rolling over again until he is curling around Oropher’s waist. Catlike and seductive he is, far too much for a mere child. But Thranduil is no mere child. He is a Prince, spoiled and treasured by all those he’s ever met. And he knows his father will deny him nothing at all. Oropher scoffs and it is fake as the placating tone in his voice.

“Well, how do you think you’ll manage that? I am tough, see? You will not be able to-” Just as Oropher touches Thranduil’s lips with his index finger, he is bitten and rightfully so. Thranduil felt a little teased, and would retaliate again if provoked. Oropher only feels a slight tickle at his fingertip.

Thranduil chews on Oropher’s finger, tasting both the sweetness of elven flesh combined with something slightly metallic and meaty. His sharp little teeth have succeeded in getting Oropher to bleed, and the scent is absolutely _intoxicating._ Oropher watches as Thranduil licks and sucks at his finger, the warmth there something he can definitely feel along with heat somewhere else. His cheeks are flushed, no longer pure snow-white but with a splash of colour to them.

“...Thranduil, what are you doing..?” He is transfixed upon the sight of his son in his lap and that hot, wet tongue laving over his slick finger. Thranduil only offers a quiet moan in response and nibbles at Oropher’s finger some more, somewhat annoyed that it has already begun to heal. Soon Oropher snaps out of his daze and pulls his finger to wipe it on his tunic. Thranduil goes after it again but Oropher holds him back.

“Calm yourself, îon nin. I won’t have you turning into a vampire just because the cooks are taking long with your food.” Minutes pass as Oropher holds a struggling Thranduil in his arms, and then there is a knock at the door. Once Oropher collects the plate (after sneering at the servant for making him wait) he sits beside Thranduil and offers him a pastry. Thranduil sits up to eat and Oropher feeds him, wondering how he’d let his son get _this_ hungry after only a few hours. He supposed that running around in the forest after lunch used up more energy than he thought. 

_‘How is he going to sleep tonight after eating all this sugar…?’_ Oropher thinks, careful of letting his fingers stray too close to Thranduil’s mouth. He knows his son is affected by those little magic flowers but surely Thranduil did not know what he was doing? As the Prince knelt upon the bed, his legs were parted and the left shoulder of his wispy silver robe hung down to his elbow. Now Thranduil shifts forwards and his other shoulder is bared, allowing the shimmering fabric to fall and pool at his waist. 

“Mmmm….” he moans, openly biting at the pastry as flakes of crust fly and rivulets of warm honey drip down his chin. Oropher stares at his son, noticing just how lewd Thranduil is becoming. He must do something to clear his son of this ailment, and soon. He does not think his heart can take much more of this. How fiercely it pounds in his chest, sending all the blood from his cheeks and brain down to his lap. Thranduil appears much the same, taking short gasps with his hips swaying in a slow circle. Oropher dares to peek at the piled fabric between his son’s legs and spots the dim candlelight reflecting especially bright from a raised bump. He covers his own arousal with shame and a pillow, just in case Thranduil decides to crawl a little closer. Oh, and Thranduil does. But Oropher is loathe to get his robes sticky and stops his son. Thranduil looks up, and Oropher licks his own fingers clean. His fingers are thick, made to wield swords and crush skulls. Such power he holds in his hands, yet he is so gentle towards his son. Thranduil feels incredibly special whenever his father does things for him, with him, because of him. All the time.

Oropher wipes his hands once more on his tunic and undoes the first clasp at his chest. The heat in his body will not leave and is not so easily sated. Just how had the brief contact between him and Thranduil turned into this? He thinks about his bitten finger and hopes the effects of those flowers have not transferred to his blood. Nothing good can come of his… excitement, not like this. But Thranduil has other ideas. Leaning up to his father, Thranduil licks honey from his own lips and ignores the sweet mess past the reach of his tongue. Oropher, always fond of keeping his son tidy bends and presses his tongue to Thranduil’s cheek. A high-pitched squeak escapes the young Prince now as Oropher cleans him, licking with absolute precision until Thranduil is perfectly clean. Oropher picks up Thranduil’s robes and pats his face clean, then realizes he has missed a spot just by Thranduil’s neck. He goes to lick him there and presses his thin, wet lips to the shimmering spot. And then Thranduil throws his head back and moans as if Oropher had placed his lips _somewhere else._ Oropher jerks back, but Thranduil is quicker and smooshes his face into his father’s. His lips are succulent and hungry for more than just food, kissing and sucking at Oropher wherever he can reach. Oropher finds himself amidst a passionate exchange of tongues and doesn’t dare try anything bold. He will keep his tongue where it belongs, thank you very much. And of course, Thranduil will try to rip it out. 

_‘Why is he so vicious…?’_ Oropher wonders, then recalling this is _his_ son, his own flesh and blood, of _course_ Thranduil will tear him to shreds, bathed in the flames of desire. He growls in warning, low and animalistic to ward off Thranduil’s razor-like teeth. Oropher actually _feels_ the things above his neck, his ears being the most sensitive with his lips a close second. Thranduil sinks his teeth into Oropher’s lips and is treated to the Elvenking unleashing a breathy groan unlike anything he’s heard before. Oropher felt so little physical pain in his life that it became a sinful pleasure he could only enjoy with a particularly ferocious lover. He has only dreamed of such things in the past. And now, blood trickles from the corner of his lips and he _aches_.

“Thranduil, ah..” He grunts and pulls Thranduil’s robes away from the hot flesh of his son - if elves could sweat, those robes would be sticking to Thranduil like molten tar. 

“Ai, Ada… please, my body it.. It feels like it is burning…” Thranduil cries out for Oropher to strip him and shoves a hand between his own legs to unlace his breeches. His hand trembles and the link between his mind and his muscles is minimal. Oropher knows his son is losing himself to raw desire and moves his face away, pulling Thranduil like a magnet without touching him. Thranduil’s hands grope and scrabble to rip open Oropher’s tunic, for he needs that safety, that secure, warm place where all these confusing thoughts and feelings will miraculously disappear. But they don’t, and upon sight of the pale chest painted with scars and with thick muscles tensed, Thranduil is lost for words. Oropher is already working Thranduil’s breeches open, if just to free his son from his trapping clothes. The fabric outlines Thranduil’s soft thighs and swollen arousal so well that Oropher must peel everything away for his son to be comfortable.

“Oohn, there…” sighs Thranduil, pushing himself into Oropher’s large hand and demanding to be played with like a petulant child. Oropher hesitates and his hand goes stiff, hot flesh in his hand and creamy smooth thighs squeezing his wrist. It is like Thranduil’s body wishes to swallow him whole into depths not yet formed.

“Ión, I--”

“ **Now!!”** Thranduil shoves at Oropher and nothing happens, save for his own heart rate raising and the breaths from his lips falling a little quicker. Oropher narrows his eyes, his hand beginning to squeeze. Thranduil’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans loudly into the air. His breeches strain as he parts his legs as far as they will go, and Oropher hurriedly strips the fabric away until there is nothing left but the marks of tight seams. Now, there is no use in Oropher trying to calm his son. There is only one way to sate this rampant desire and it is with bedroom skill. Something Oropher only has in one department… and he will put those talents to good use. He wets his lips and drags his hand away, hearing Thranduil cry and gasp for him to touch just a little more. Oh yes, Thranduil is _very_ good at manipulating, even more so than Oropher can ever hope to be. But he will have to be good for his father if he ever wants this sort of thing again. Oropher does this out of the will to put his son’s aching arousal at rest, and hopefully quell his own. He opens his mouth and with one hand spread holding Thranduil down by his chest, swallows his son’s length. Oh, how Thranduil shrieks! His head thrashes to the side and both hands grip the thick bedcovers as if he will die without their silken comfort.

“Aaahhhnn!” he wails, eyebrows turned up and mouth agape. He bucks into Oropher’s mouth, but does not have enough dick to choke his father. Oropher is diligent in his work and with practiced expertise he runs his tongue flat over the head of Thranduil’s arousal. Already he can taste fresh sweetness there, milky and smooth it is. Thranduil is small enough for Oropher to pleasure him thoroughly with his lips and tongue alone, being reduced to a writhing pile of ecstasy in minutes. Oropher does not hold him to any edge or torment his son for pleasure. No, he wants Thranduil to find glorious release by his own skill as quickly as possible, so that his pent-up desire may end before it causes him to explode. He’s heard of elves who suffered from that sort of thing before. Gil-Galad once told him about Glorfindel going mad after a week without sex. _Now is not the time for recollections_ , he thinks. Thranduil keens and is stiff all over as he spills himself with a final gasp, body limp and quivering thereafter. Oropher had not expected it so soon but drinks deeply nonetheless. Moments later, he tucks his son into bed and checks him for any signs of injury. There is a slightly red mark on his chest in the shape of Oropher’s hand, and his thighs are a little chafed, but there is no lasting bruising that will bring shame to Oropher every time he looks at his son. 

“Sleep…” he whispers, and strokes Thranduil’s hair until the Prince falls asleep. In his dreams there are many wonderful things that give him cause to smile and toss about, and Oropher watches him throughout the night. He is still not going to touch himself even hours after maintaining the need to do so. He barely cares about it at all. All that matters is his son, and nothing else.

 

 


End file.
